When I Die [Wattys 2016]

Chapter 39: Over and Out

All around me was light. I was sure I'd died. It was weird, and concerning that I woke up in the middle of moving into the next life. That wasn't the case, however.

I woke up, like so many times before, in a hospital bed. Immediately upon waking, I became aware of the dreadful, all-encompassing pain that enveloped my body. Everything felt like it was burning, my lungs left me gasping. My head ached. I reached up and touched my forehead which felt like... cotton? My lip felt fat, and I touched it, too and then winced in pain. My cheek hurt, the bone of it felt shattered. I touched it, too. It wasn't shattered. I had faint memories of being asleep, I remembered my party and then nothing else until I was in and out of sleep at the hospital. I had a vague memory of Ophelia talking. I assumed it was the drugs.

"Oh, baby," she whispered. It was my mom. She was there, and I had never been happier to see her.

She looked pained. She looked less relieved than she did the other times I'd woken up like this, and more apologetic. I tried to speak and choked on something.

I gagged harshly, but didn't throw up. In fact, I felt like I couldn't throw up.

My mother comforted me. "Leo, baby, it's okay. Just relax. Don't try to talk. You have a tube down your throat. They'll probably take it out now that you're awake," she said, pressing the nurse call button on my bed.

She shook her head, "you gave us such a scare, baby," and she placed her hand on mine.

The nurse came in the room hurriedly, surprised to see me awake, I guess.

"Oh, wow he's up! Well, lets get that tube outta you," she said, a little too chipper for my liking.

I felt sick and hot and in deep pain. I was massively uncomfortable, not in the mood for others being happy.

I'll spare the details of them removing the tube from my chest but let's just say, it was unpleasant.

I could talk in a whisper, my voice broken and my throat raw from the intubation.

"Mom," I rasped, "I thought they weren't supposed to take... life-saving... measures?" Whew, breathing was hard.

She nodded, as if she knew the question was on the forefront of my mind the whole time and was just waiting to hear it.
"Well... this wasn't the cancer, Leo...your lung collapsed. You still have months to go... we told them to intubate." She said all this like a child confessing to breaking a rule, awaiting a scolding.

The realization was heavy. I would have died. In fact, I should have died.  My family was afraid of losing me in the same way I was afraid of leaving them.
I wasn't sure if I was okay or upset.
"You hit your head and face when you fell. Are you in pain?" She asked gently. I could tell she was trying to gauge my mood.
I thought for a moment, and then whispered to her.
"It's unbearable," I groaned, trying to shift and into a more comfortable position.

Soon the nurse returned and put me to sleep.

The days at the hospital passed slowly. I mostly slept and my mother mostly answered phone calls from concerned party-goers. I guess they felt more connected to it now because they happened to be at the site where I went down. It was an obligation to check in.

My pain stayed pretty constant, with the exception of sleeping, I was always in sharp pain. When I slept, I had fitful nightmares involving Ophelia. I hadn't spoken to her in a while, but lately she was constantly on my mind.
The doctors attempted to find a pain regimen that wouldn't make me puke, but would take care of the sharp, stabbing feelings in my chest and my aching head. After much torturous trial and error, they'd still not found it. I was miserable.

After two days in the ICU and two days in a regular room, I was sent home. They sent me home with a backpack for fluids and a letter for oxygen supplies to be delivered to our home.

I was mortified. I didn't want the hospital coming home with me. I knew the worse I got, the more home and hospital would blend, playing a dancing game around me, becoming interchangeable. My home wasn't sterile or clinical. I didn't want it to be.
My first day back home, I was wrapped in pain and the tiniest movements had tears in my eyes. I was placed in my bedroom with a walkie-talkie for emergencies, a bucket, and all the OxyContin my body could handle. I slept for sixteen hours.
The next day, I woke up in the middle of the afternoon dizzy and nauseated and in excruciating pain. I felt weak.
I wondered about my quality of life.
The day after that, I woke up unable to breathe on my own. My mom hooked up the oxygen mask and I slowly regained control of my lungs.
My eyes were heavy and I was in so much pain.
My mom felt my head and gave me aspirin, she wiped my face with a wet rag. She dutifully dressed me, and I almost passed out from the pain of sitting up.
She laid me back down, tucked my blankets in, and left the room.

I waited for her to leave before grabbing the walkie-talkie. I was dying. This had to be it.
"Mom, please call everyone. Over."
She knew what I meant. She knew who "everyone" was. I'd made a list of the names I wanted to talk to on The End day.
There was a pause, static on the other end, and then,
"It's not time for that yet, Leo. Over."
I shook my head a little, trying to imagine a worse pain than what I was in. This must be dying. It can't get worse than this.
"Mom..." I said, the pain escaping along with my words.
"Not yet. Over and out."
I dropped the walkie-talkie at my side and cried until the OxyContin lulled me to sleep.